


(Not) Alone

by Domino_Darkwolf



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Always Keep Fighting, Fable Style Story, How Do I Tag, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, I don't know what else to tag, I'm Bad At Tagging, Metaphorical Fluff, Metaphors, Short, Short One Shot, You are not alone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 10:56:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7046539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Domino_Darkwolf/pseuds/Domino_Darkwolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Righteous Man falls in a battle he's been fighting alone, and he can't find the strength to keep fighting.</p>
<p>A short, one-shot piece written in fable-esque form. Completely metaphorical fluff. Inspired by Misha and Jensen's "You Are Not Alone" campaign, as well as Jared's "Always Keep Fighting" campaign.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Not) Alone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlexHamato](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexHamato/gifts).



> _I wanted to write something that went along with Jensen and Misha's "You Are Not Alone" campaign, and it turned out to be this; a metaphorical, fable-esque one-shot. It's also somewhat deeply personal in the sense that I have, essentially, been where Dean is in this scenario, more recently than not. And if you are now, please know **you are not alone** , and please **(always) keep fighting** and please don't hesitate to message me/comment if you need someone to talk to._

The Righteous Man clawed at loose, downtrodden earth and grass that was slick with blood. His face bore a grimace as he sucked in a sharp breath between clenched teeth. His ears were ringing, and his vision blurred, and had darkened at the sides. The crimson color that stained the hands of the Righteous Man told him he was bleeding, but from where he didn't know; every inch of his body felt as if it had been torn open.

Horrible, bloodthirsty war cries echoed in the distance and pierced the thick veil of dust that engulfed the land around the Righteous Man. He could smell their sulfuric stench that danced within the cloud of earth that encircled him. He could taste, in the back of his tongue, their violent hunger for blood and for death, and it tasted bitter and cold.

The Righteous Man used his feeble arms to push himself up, but his legs refused to stand. His jade eyes squinted in the thick haze of black and brown, but he saw nothing and sensed no one. No one but the swarm of demons that howled, out of sight, but nearby. Beyond them, there was no one; the Righteous Man was alone. And if he didn't get up, their thirst for death would soon be quenched.

The Righteous Man shouted halfhearted commands that his body refused to abide. His muscles screamed in an agonizing ache that bore deep into his bones. Purple and black hues surfaced to his swollen skin along his prominent jawbone, and painfully graced the left side of his face. A familiar, iron-like taste danced on his tongue, and he spat a thick glob of blood to the earth between his red stained hands. He could feel the scores of tender contusions that riddled his chest, and felt every laceration as he gingerly moved his body upright. A heavy groan scratched his parched throat while the Righteous Man dug his knees into the dirt for stability, but he could rise no further.

The once Righteous but now Broken Man knelt where he had fell, with his head bowed heavy in defeat. Deep down, in the hidden core of his very being, at the center of his soul, he knew he did not want to die. Not that day. But he had exhausted all of his energy. He had fought tooth and nail, and he had extinguished all the fight he could give, and it would not replenish. He was weary and weighty, and alone. And he was ready for the battle to be over.

And then came the unexpected; a sliver of white light permeated the cloud. It stretched itself through the darkness and laid its luminous fingers upon the right shoulder of Broken Man where it gripped him tight. His tired eyes distantly took in the lustrous glow that clutched him with warmth and devotion, and he gradually came to understand that it was not light that grasped him, but a hand. The Broken Man followed the extended arm until he found the pair of kind, electric blue eyes that gazed down at him with empathy and sorrow. The blazing blue eyes appeared to belong to a dark haired man dressed in a tan trench coat, the but the Broken Man knew, without a doubt, it was not a mortal that clutched him, but an Angel. His Angel.

As the Broken Man looked upon his Angel's face, the cloak of dust gently began to thin, gradually shedding the darkness that had enveloped him. And with the receding of the shadows came yet another bewilderment. The cool hilt of a steel blade pressed itself into the broken man's right palm, and a calloused hand that was not his own gently closed his fingers around the weapon. The Broken Man tore his gaze from the kind face of the Angel and slowly turned his head until his morose eyes discerned a familiar sight. A tall man in plaid with long hair and empathetic eyes huddled ardently at his side. This new man — the broken man's Brother — tenderly clasped his hands around the Broken Man's, wordlessly encouraging — _begging_ — his brother to hold fast to the weapon he had carelessly abandoned.

It was then the Broken Man realized he was not alone. Not then. Not ever. In the darkness he had lost sight of his Brother and his Angel, but they had never abandoned him. And the way they looked upon him with devoted adoration, the Broken Man knew they never would.

The dust settled then, and caved to clarity and light. With the earthy curtain drawn, the Broken Man could see the demons that had howled at him in the shadows. The demons that had whispered his name and called for his blood. The smoky, blackened figures stood atop a steep hill, and the Broken Man was surprised, not by their continued presence, but by their size. Alone in the darkness, the demons had seemed colossal. They had attacked from all sides and seemed to outnumber him a thousand to one. But under the sun, in the company of his Brother and his Angel, he could see that the demons were unexceptional and few.

A newfound strength surged beneath the Broken Man's skin, and breathed life into his bones. His fingers clutched tightly the cool hilt of his blade without the aid of his Brother, and the Broken Man rose to become the Righteous Man again. His companions — his Brother and his Angel — took arms at his side, each brandishing their own blades, and prepared to fight another skirmish. The war was far from over, the Righteous Man knew. Many battles were certain to ensue, and some would leave him battered and bruised. But the Righteous Man knew he would emerge victorious, because the Righteous Man was not alone.

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own nor am I affiliated with Supernatural, the CW/WB/Universal, or anyone involved with any of said aforementioned shows/networks/corporations. If I was, I'm not sure I would be writing fanfiction because it would all be cannon.


End file.
